


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Co-Dependency, M/M, Mental Health Issues, reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home on Christmas Eve.</p><p>(A/N: Written for http://221b-advent.livejournal.com/. Sherlock/John, with additional appearances by Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Home For Christmas

Sherlock spends a long time standing on the far side of the street, watching 221-B. His heart rate is far outside its normal parameters, his palms are sweating inside his gloves, and he’s having trouble getting enough oxygen, like someone is sitting on his ribcage.

And he’s tired. So unbelievably tired. And as he watches the snow fall, watches John come home from doing the shopping, watches him open the door and walk inside their apartment, watches the upstairs light come on – it all hurts to look at. And while Sherlock is never going to care about people, in general, the way Mrs. Hudson or Molly or John can, he knows damn well that, where John Watson is concerned, he’s long lost the ability to divorce himself from feelings. Knows that John could ask him to do anything, and he would do it. Knows that John owns him.

And that, right there, is dangerous. Because John doesn’t have to take him back. Because he could just break Sherlock’s nose and kick him out into the snow. And then Sherlock is going to end up overdosing on the six o’clock news, because, without John, what’s the point to any of it?

He only realizes his breath is coming too quickly when he gets spots at the edges of his vision. Still, though, he only moves towards the apartment when he starts to lose sensation in his toes, and by the time he’s slipped inside the building – using the key provided by his brother; as if his debt to Mycroft wasn’t already high enough – and climbed the stairs to knock on the apartment door, he’s fighting nausea, and he needs to find something to say, something that will convince John to forgive him – but his mind isn’t cooperating, _traitor,_ and by the time the door opens, light spilling out from behind John as John’s skin loses all its color, Sherlock still hasn’t thought of anything to say beyond –

“John.”

Distantly, he processes everything else – _voices, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly_ – but all he sees is John. John, who stares at him for a second, motionless, and then shuts the door in his face, and all Sherlock can do is swallow hard and close his eyes, breathe through the way it feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. Inside, he can hear Mrs. Hudson asking questions, knows that he should wait, knows that he should give them time – but he puts out a hand and pushes the door open, _waited three years_ , and everyone falls silent as he steps into the room. He stands there for a moment – _John on the far side of the room, arms around himself; Molly glaring through tears, Mrs. Hudson holding the back of a chair, Lestrade’s mouth hanging open_ – and then Lestrade’s beer shatters on the floor and Sherlock’s reeling backwards, slamming into the door frame and scrabbling at the wall to keep himself upright as Lestrade lowers his fist and just glares at him.

“You – you –”

The room is spinning around him, and Lestrade’s voice seems to coming from be far away, and it’s quite possible he’s underestimated his deteriorated physical state, because by the time he’s straightened up again, Mrs. Hudson already has her hands on his shoulders, holding him tight as she just stares at him with tears down her face, and Sherlock _cares,_ he does, knows that he hurt her, _hates_ that he hurt her, but where is – John, he _needs_ –

“We should go.”

Molly’s voice, clear even over the ringing in his ears, and Sherlock’s vision clears in time to see her tugging on Lestrade’s arm, watches her hand him his jacket and push him towards the door before she places a hand on Mrs. Hudson’s elbow, her eyes never cutting away from Sherlock’s.

“Why don’t we go downstairs? I’ll make us all some tea.”

Mrs. Hudson makes some kind of horrible noise and nods, and Lestrade never once stops glaring as Molly somehow gets them both out through the doorway. Sherlock tries to thank her with his eyes – can’t quite make the words happen, with his mind stalling on him and the taste of blood in his mouth – and she gives him a quick nod before she’s gone, the door closing behind her and –

A carol is still playing in the background. John is leaned up against a wall, his arms wrapped tight around himself and his skin still completely colourless, and Sherlock can’t breathe. And as the seconds tick by and John doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, Sherlock loses the fight to stay still, can’t just keep staring at the look on John’s face, and it’s not until he’s hung up his coat and sat down on one of the sofa chairs that John finally shudders and unwraps his arms from around himself, his eyes glassed over in a way that makes Sherlock uneasy.

“Would you like some tea?”

His voice is barely there, wrecked in a way that throws Sherlock back to that horrible day in the graveyard, and Sherlock swallows around a new wave of nausea, makes himself get back to his feet.

“Don’t.”

“See, I thought I was past the point of psychosis, but –”

“I’m real, John.”

“And tea seems to the next step here.”

_“Stop.”_

“Fuck you.”

And then John flinches, draws in closer on himself, and Sherlock crosses the distance, can’t just stand there and watch John watch him like he thinks he’s going to disappear – comes to a stop when John raises his hands and takes a step back, eyes filling with tears as he moves away from Sherlock.

“Don’t. You’re not real. You can’t touch me, you’ll –”

“I’m _real.”_

“You’re _dead.”_

“John –”

“I buried you!”

And now John’s voice is a shout, and there are tears streaking down his cheeks, and – Sherlock has to reach out, _please, John, please,_ grabs hold of his wrists, knows that John could have him on the floor in half a second – and then John shudders and goes limp against him, clings to him, and Sherlock can’t breathe, can’t think, just holds on as tight as he can, his eyes stinging as John starts to talk, his arms sliding around Sherlock and his voice a croak against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You bastard, you bastard, you absolute fucking _bastard_ –”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, blinks through the tears, and just holds on tighter.

\- - -

It takes them about an hour to get up off the floor where they’d ended up, and Sherlock makes that cup of tea and then wraps John in a blanket. John never takes his eyes off him, and Sherlock can’t seem to stop shaking, his body so far beyond his own control it would be frightening if not for the fact that John hasn’t kicked him out into the snow yet. Nothing matters more than that.

“I need you to tell me everything.”

John’s voice is still barely there, and Sherlock hesitates before he turns off the Christmas playlist and sits down beside John on the couch, leaving a solid two inches of space between them. The apartment still looks much the same – albeit with some of his belongings missing; it seems that John’s grieving had led him to stay here, but with the need for a few changes – and the Christmas decorations are as perfect as always, but he knows that everything is different. Knows that John needs to understand, so that Sherlock doesn’t lose him for good.

And so he talks. Tells John about Moriarty, about the snipers, about Molly. About spending two years hunting down two of the snipers, and a final, desperate year hunting down Moran. Talks about the places he’s been to, the disguises he’s assumed. Carefully leaves out the new scars on his skin. And by the time he’s done talking, John’s leaning up against him, and Sherlock’s entire side is on fire, his skin aching for a closer touch, and his voice gives out when he reaches the end of his story. He’s painfully aware of John breathing against him, of the way John’s fingers are turning white from how hard they’re pressed into the mug between his hands, and he has no idea – none at all – of what to do next. With the fire and the decorations and John so close to him, he could be safe, he could be home, this could be perfect – but it isn’t. He needs to know that John isn’t going to send him away. And as the seconds slip by with nothing but John’s breathing to break the silence, Sherlock’s skin starts to feel too small, and his breath is coming short again –

“You should have told me.”

There are at least seventeen problems with that statement, but Sherlock doesn’t say a word. Instead, he bites his tongue and nods, his heart picking up speed as John shifts slightly against him – and then John makes a hurt sound and moves closer, drops his empty mug to the carpet and presses his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock’s mind just stops. He only realizes he’s slid his arm around John when John stiffens against him, and then all Sherlock can do is sit there, eyes wide, blind to the decorations around him as everything narrows down to John. After a moment, John cranes his head to look at him and – Sherlock still can’t think. And now they’re just staring at each other, John’s eyes red and his skin still lacking in colour, and Sherlock wants – he _wants_ –

It’s been six seconds, and they’re still staring, and Sherlock knows that this isn’t something that friends do, knows that this is far beyond the realm of normal behavior even for him and John – and then there are lips pressed against his, soft and warm and _home_ and barely there before they’re gone again, and he opens his eyes to find John watching him, so much emotion there it hurts to look at – and whatever Sherlock’s expression is doing, it must give John the answer he wants, because he shifts against Sherlock until his head is resting under Sherlock’s chin, his breath coming soft against his neck and his fingers stroking slow and steady against the inside of his wrist, and all Sherlock can do is wrap his arms around John and hold on tight to him and shake.

\- - -

It’s only when the living room clock chimes midnight that John stirs against him, and while Sherlock would be quite happy to just sit there wrapped around John forever – he never wants to let go of John again, for as long as he lives – he knows there’s something else he needs to do.

“You need to go talk to Mrs. Hudson.”

John’s head is still tucked under his chin, his voice a rumble against his chest, the words an echo of Sherlock’s thoughts, and Sherlock, somehow, makes himself untangle his arms from around John, who sits up straight and doesn’t look at him. His eyes are on his hands, resting down in his lap, and Sherlock hesitates before he gets to his feet again.

“I’ll be back.”

John flinches, and Sherlock swallows around the wave of guilt. Knows that if the situation were reversed, he would be tracking John’s every move, making sure he could never get lost again.

“Come downstairs with me?”

John doesn’t say a word, but he nods and stands up, still not quite looking at him. Sherlock has no idea what he’s supposed to do – whether or not he’s allowed to keep touching – and when John doesn’t give him any kind of glue, Sherlock just grits his teeth and walks out the door. By the time they’re downstairs, everyone in Mrs. Hudson’s living room has fallen silent – Lestrade is still there, an ice pack on his hand, and Molly is sitting beside Mrs. Hudson, who’s wrapped in a blanket and has a box of tissues in her lap – and Sherlock lingers at the door, hesitates, until he feels John’s hand come to rest on his back, and then he’s able to take that first step into the room. 

\- - -

Several hours later, after Molly and Lestrade have bunked down in Mrs. Hudson’s apartment, Sherlock and John both crash.

Sherlock’s exhausted body is finally giving out on him, and John still looks like he’s made of parchment, and when John pauses at the bottom of the stairs, glances at him and then just stands there, Sherlock carefully nudges him in the right direction, and John lets himself be nudged. By the time they make it up the stairs, Sherlock doesn’t even have the energy to panic when John curls up in the bed and leaves him space, and as soon as he’s under the covers, with John pressed up against him so that they’re touching from shoulder to hip, all Sherlock can do is close his eyes and cling to the comforting sound of John’s breathing.

\- - -

When Sherlock wakes up, John’s already awake. Staring at him, in fact, his face creased into some cross between a frown and contentment, and Sherlock swallows, hard, raises his head from the pillow and – realizes he has an arm draped across John’s chest. He’s waking up beside John, he’s safe, and he seems to have become clingy at some point, and it’s enough to make him flush – but when he tries to move, John puts a hand on his arm to keep him there, and Sherlock is in no way equipped to deal with everything his mind and body are throwing at him right now. He feels like he’s breaking apart inside.

“I should be angry with you.”

“There’s time for that yet.”

He’s not sure how he manages the words. His voice doesn’t sound like him, and everything is narrowed down to the touch on his arm. He’s not dreaming. This is real. And John’s lips are pressing up into something that looks like a pained smile, though Sherlock had meant nothing humorous by his statement. At some point, John is going to hit the stage of anger in this process of things, and Sherlock might well end up a bruise to match the one Lestrade's already given him.

“Only you would come home on Christmas.”

“Should I have waited?”

Again, he’s not sure how he manages the words. And when John just shakes his head, tightens his grip on his arm and shifts a little closer, Sherlock can’t breathe, and his heart is slamming much too hard against his ribs – and then John’s gaze flicks down to his mouth before back to his eyes, and Sherlock is pretty sure he’s going to fly apart. Surely the human body was not meant to experience all of this at once.

“Can I –”

Sherlock’s nodding, frantically, before John even finishes, and when John brushes their mouths together, Sherlock closes his eyes and saves every detail, morning breath and unsure and shaky and absolutely fucking _perfect,_ and he’s going to put this somewhere it can never be deleted, and – and then John presses himself closer, wiggling against him as his hand slides down to clutch at his hip, pulls himself closer as his teeth catch against Sherlock’s lower lip, and Sherlock’s mind just stops. Flashes white, an explosion of heat, and something inside him cracks, makes him pull John in until there’s no space left between, because this is _real,_ this is John breathing into his mouth, this is John invading every sense and crawling inside him to make a home for himself the way Sherlock’s always wanted him to, and Sherlock wants to do this every day until he dies. 

\- - -

“Look, uh. I’m sorry about, uh – that.”

It’s nearly two in the afternoon, and John and Sherlock have finally surfaced from bed. John still looks like he’s about to fall over, even with a shower and some breakfast, and Sherlock is in a place of being torn between concern for John, and the new awareness that all he wants to do is keep John in bed and never stop kissing him – but either way, with Lestrade standing in front of him, sheepishly eyeing the bruise on Sherlock’s chin as John sits on the sofa and Molly and Mrs. Hudson work on lighting the candles on the tree, Sherlock’s musings on his new love for John’s mouth are going to have to wait. Indeed, for all that John might be his… well, _John,_ and for all that Mrs. Hudson is the closest thing to a mother he has, there was a third person targeted by Moriarty, and he was targeted for a reason. And while it might be some kind of justice to make Lestrade feel guilty for a bit, Sherlock is pretty sure that – judging by the way Lestrade can’t quite look at him, as though he, like everyone, is convinced that Sherlock is going to disappear again – Sherlock has done more than enough damage where Lestrade is concerned.

“It was no less than I deserved.”

“Sherlock –”

“However, if you attempt to do it again, I shall reciprocate in like.”

Lestrade makes some kind of incredulous huffing sound, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, and Sherlock suddenly has no idea what he’s supposed to say next. For a moment, they just stand there – and then, incredibly, Lestrade reaches out and pulls him into the most awkward hug Sherlock has ever experienced. He goes stock still, but he barely has time to react before Lestrade pulls back, clapping him roughly on the shoulder and not quite meeting his eyes.

“It’s good to have you back.”

Sherlock opens his mouth – doesn’t know what he’s going to say, as something warm and happy settles inside him, stealing away the right words – but he’s saved when Molly joins them. She and Lestrade are wearing different outfits from yesterday – clearly, they at least went home to change – and for all that she looks exhausted, her eyes red and her skin much too pale, her gaze is still steady, and it’s clear that she’s finally realized that she no longer has to lie to her friends. When she smiles at him, Sherlock feels his lips turn up slightly, and doesn’t need to say a word. She already knows anything he could say. She’s a good part of the reason he’s here, after all.

“Shall we, then? Mrs. Hudson made some tea, and then – well. There’s presents, of course.”

Her eyes cut to Lestrade, who stops staring at the floor and smiles at her, and when they turn towards the tree, Sherlock follows them in silence. The tree is done up beautifully with candles and bulbs, and _Silent Night_ seems to be where they’ve arrived on the playlist, and there’s a pile of presents underneath the tree, and by the time everyone’s settled – Sherlock on the couch with John on one side and Mrs. Hudson on the other, with Molly seated in one of the chairs, and Lestrade kneeling in front of the tree, declaring that it’s his year to be Santa and hand out the presents – all Sherlock can do is lean in close against John and be thankful he came home alive.

\- - -

Later, when everyone is gone and John is curled up on the sofa, wrapped in the ugly jumper that Molly got for him and wearing some odd expression of happiness and lingering shock, Sherlock picks up his violin. It’s one of his belongings that seems to have survived the three years here without him, and his fingers ache as he gets his hands on it – but before he’s even made it to the chorus of _White Christmas,_ John’s turned away from him and curled in tighter on himself, and Sherlock sets the violin down, crosses around the couch and kneels down in front of John, wants to touch but isn’t sure if he can. There’s going to be a moment when John’s relief shatters and lets out the anger that’s got to be in there, and Sherlock knows he’s got to very careful to take his every cue from John for the next while.

“John?”

“All these years I kept that blasted thing. Used to imagine hearing it in the middle of the night, even.”

It feels like being punched in the chest, and Sherlock closes his eyes. Curses Moriarty to hell and back, for probably about the thousandth time. Hates that any of this ever happened at all.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You have no idea what you did to me.”

“I –”

“You can’t ever do this to me again. Alright? You have to promise me you’ll never –”

John’s sounding increasingly desperate, and Sherlock opens his eyes, finds John’s mouth right there, and leans in to kiss the words out of it. John freezes against him for a moment, and then grabs hold of Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock lets himself be pulled closer, lets John fill his senses and send everything else away for a while. When they eventually end up just breathing each other’s air, pressed in close with their foreheads resting together, Sherlock somehow manages to think over the frantic beat of his heart, manages to put the words together. Needs John to know this, because Sherlock has experienced life without John, and a life without John is simply not an option.

“For as long as you’ll have me, I’ll be here.”

This close, he can’t really see John’s expression, but he feels the shudder that racks through him, and then John’s tugging him up onto the couch, and he ends up sprawled on top of him, his head tucked under John’s chin and his body held in place by the tightness of John’s arms around him. And as he lies there, safe and cared for in a way that had always seemed impossible, all Sherlock can do is count the beats of John’s heart, hammering away underneath his own, each beat proof that this is real, and that John is with him, and that Sherlock is finally and truly home.


End file.
